


Your Heart is My Home

by ObsessiveandCrazy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And the rest of team cap, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But only briefly mentioned, Cap is not doing so good, Civil War (Marvel), Civil War Fix-It, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Guilt, Hurt, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), sorta i suppose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 23:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessiveandCrazy/pseuds/ObsessiveandCrazy
Summary: Months after the deemed Civil War between the famous superheroes, the rogues are officially pardoned and get to return stateside again.Or, alternatively, Steve pines and feels homesick until he doesn't.





	Your Heart is My Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short one shot that I came up with when I was bored and wanted to write something angsty. The title comes from the song A Place we Knew by Dean Lewis because I fucking love that song.
> 
> Team Cap aren't in Wakanda when they get told the news (apart from Bucky, obviously), but I have no idea where they are because I'm bad at geography, so I didn't really specify anything.
> 
> Also sorry in advance for any grammar errors, I tried to edit it but I swear I always miss something

It was quiet, suffocating almost, where Steve sat painting the sketch he had made the previous day. The only noise came from the light stroke of the brush and it irritated Steve to no end; the scratch of the hairs of the brush on the paper unnerved him, unsettled him in a way he hadn’t felt in a long while, an itch to do something impulsive and reckless.

He knew what was wrong, it was obvious if you just looked at the drawing on the page. All the angles were off, some too sharp, others too soft and it put Steve on edge because he was supposed to have a perfect memory and a perfect recollection and yet he can’t even draw something vaguely accurate from something he saw probably thousands of times before.

It didn’t help that the colours were all off either. The shades weren’t right. Not bold enough or bright enough, but he supposed that no colour that he mixed would ever be able to capture the vibrant mixture of red and gold. No matter how hard he tried, it would never be enough, he concluded.

Maybe that’s why seconds later the room was in disarray, with paper shredded and pieces scattered, brushes and pencils rolling on the floor, water spilt and paint splattered on the wall. Steve wouldn’t remember being the one to rip the paper and knocking everything about, he’d just remember this burning pain inside of him that spread through him like a wildfire searing into him that it was his fault that it all happened, his mistake that cost everyone so much.

And perhaps that’s why he can never draw the image perfectly. After all, once you’re on the road of making mistakes its hard to come off of it.

* * *

There was a knock on his door. And another. A call of his name too. But the sounds were muted, muffled, unimportant.

Steve was staring at the phone in his hand and it stared back. It was an old-style phone, at least to anyone who lived in this century, one that can’t even take a photo, and can only just manage to send texts and call someone. It did allow ring tones though, and Steve added the AC/DC song Back In Black because it was a certain person’s favourite. Still, Steve hadn’t heard that song in a long while.

He must have laughed when he saw the phone delivered to him, called it a “brick” and said it was ancient. And to a futurist, it probably was.

A knock came again, more of a pound this time, before the door flew open and Sam and Nat were standing in the entryway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised until they saw what Steve was looking at and both formed pitying expressions (though Sam’s was much more sympathetic) that never helped.

“Steve.” Nat said simply, “We’ve got news.”

“Good news,” Sam reiterated for her when he saw that Steve wasn’t moving, still staring at the phone, as still as a statue except of the slight rise in his frame when he breathed and his eyes occasionally blinking.

Slowly, Steve turned to look at them with a questioning expression on his face, hand clasped around the phone, like it usually was. He didn’t speak as much as he used to anymore. Maybe it was penance for not speaking—for not telling the truth and explaining—when he should have. Maybe it was because the only one he wanted to speak to wasn't speaking to him.

“Come with us,” Nat said, reaching out her hand as if meaning for him to take it, as if she could guide him through this, help him overcome it. “We’ll tell everyone together.”

He wanted to take it, he really did, but something stopped him. The same burning pain from before was spreading, reminding him he didn’t deserve their kindness, not now, not after what he’d done.

The other two shared a look between them, a silent conversation flowing within the few seconds they looked at each other before Sam left and Nat turned to look at him again, her green eyes perceptive as always as she spoke.

“You know you’re not the only one who did him wrong, right?” her voice was calm, even, not betraying the pain she felt or the sorrow in her eyes that even she can’t hide. “I knew too, Steve,” she went on, thinking it would help, when it only made things worse. It only enhanced the betrayal, really. “I knew too, and I decided not to tell him and that’s my fault as well but we have to accept the blame and move on and not stand there and wallow in self-pity when we can do something to fix it.”

“We can’t fix it,” Steve muttered, but grabbed her still outstretched hand and followed her out of the room, not wanting to upset her any further.

He’d already hurt enough people he loved.

* * *

The team—well _his_ team now he supposed— were all standing around in the kitchen when him and Natasha arrived. He was still holding onto Nat’s hand when they got there, not letting go, as if she was the rope he clung to to stop him from falling any further, his lifejacket when lost at sea and very far away from home. 

When Sam saw the two enter, nodding at them as they did, he placed down the mug he was holding and gave an uncomfortable cough before speaking.

“So I have just received some very good news,” he said, pausing to look at everyone before continuing. “We’ve been pardoned.”

All of them collectively smiled, even Steve, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and the others (Scott and Clint) cheered.

“Does this mean I get to go home?” Clint asked, obviously thinking about his wife and kids that he hadn’t seen in months.

“We all get to go home,” replied Sam, smiling brightly. “Even Bucky, once the triggers are gone,” he nodded at Steve.

And that was great, Bucky being able to walk a free man. But Steve couldn’t think about Bucky right now, not when he gets to go back to New York, the bustling city that never sleeps, with the high-rise buildings and the friendly and not-so-friendly people. Not when he gets to go back _home_.

Though, he doesn’t really know if home would welcome him back.

* * *

Before he boarded the plane destined for New York, Steve sent off a text message. It wasn’t anything really, just a _I’ll be home soon_ , but it felt like everything. It felt like Steve had just laid all his cards on the table, opened his heart, showed his emotions and left himself bare, without any protection, liable to get hurt. He’d just hope that he won’t.

* * *

The journey back seemed like the longest few hours of Steve’s life, his hands constantly clawing at the armrests on the seat he was buckled to, his feet swinging back and forth, always brushing with the floor when they came in contact with it. Any way to alleviate the anxiety that riddled him.

Both Natasha and Sam kept looking over at him from their seats a few metres away, but it only added to the uneasiness he felt, making him more tense than he already was. Everyone else just left him alone, too excited to notice their captain struggling.

He just wanted it to be over, for all of it to be over. So he can go home.

There was turbulence further into the flight as well, but Steve didn’t pay it any mind, all he did was clench his jaw and grit his teeth, maybe a little too hard, but all it did was remind him of someone reprimanding him months ago that he would crack his perfect teeth if he did it too much. And he clung to that memory, like a baby clings to its mother. Because, even if it was for a little while, it made everything seem better.

* * *

When they landed the first thing Steve did was grab his bag and call a cab. The second thing he did was check the phone while he was walking towards the exit.

There were no messages.

He froze. Because his world was shattered and there was no way to fix it. Because he made a mistake, a big mistake, and he can’t make amends, doesn’t even know where to start anymore. Because he’s so scared and miserable and lonely and doesn’t even know where was home now.

It felt like he was drowning, plunging deep into ice cold water, like falling into the Potomac River but much worse. Even worse than crashing into the ice all those decades ago because now he doesn’t get the chance to forget or succumb to the cold and fall unconscious, doesn’t get to sleep the numbing pain away. He was awake this time and he has to face the biting cold and find warmth by himself.

And that burning feeling he had felt before now lacked any kind of heat but still licked at his insides with frigid flames that stung more than it ever had.

He shook himself, as if trying to warm himself up, and continued to carry on his way to the exit and climbed into an awaiting cab, an old address falling from the tip of his tongue before he could even stop himself.

It was old yet familiar and gave a sense of cosiness that nothing else ever could match.

* * *

The cab pulled up just outside the tall building, one of the tallest in New York, and Steve jumped out along with his bag, thanking the driver and paying with what little money he had.

He marched into the building, like a man on a mission, and if he was honest with himself, he sort of was, heading straight for the elevator and hoping and praying that his access codes still worked and that he wouldn’t be kicked out.

Luckily enough, they did. Not even FRIDAY stopped him, or said anything at all, which was a little ominous but he tried to ignore it as best as he could as he stepped out of the elevator and into what was the living area of Tony Stark’s floor.

Steve walked slowly through the place, cautiously looking around, each part he saw filling him with memories and nostalgia, back to a simpler (but definitely not simple) time. There was still the shelf filled with DVDs of apparently “classic and must-watch” films, like Star Wars, that Tony had taken the time to watch with him while he got accumulated to the 21st century and all its weird pop culture. There was still a bookcase full of all the relevant books too, like the Harry Potters, and even some history books because Tony knew that Steve wanted to learn but also enjoyed reading the old-fashioned way, from ink on paper rather from glaring screens. And if Steve were to hazard a guess, in the kitchen cupboards a few feet away, there would still be a box of the tea that Steve liked so much as it smelt just like the ones his mother had when he was little.

He soon, however, came to a stand still when he saw the sofa, or specifically who was on the sofa. Because there sat Tony Stark. Not Tony Stark the billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist. But Tony Stark, the man who is all those things but much much more. The man who spends days having a workshop binge and forgets to consume anything other than coffee, the man who dresses in sweatpants and old band t-shirts when he could wear the most expensive items on the planet, the man who stood strong and nice and generous when all he’s ever received is lies and betrayal in return.

“Tony,” Steve gasped out, feeling like he has been holding his breath the whole time he was away from him.

“Steve.” The other man said, turning to look at him with those big brown eyes, the ones that Steve could never forget.

Inadvertently, Steve began walking closer to the sofa, closer to Tony, because this was where he belonged, because this was his home. 

And Steve knew he was home, because this was where Tony was.

**Author's Note:**

> I used the tower instead of the compound because personally I like the tower better and also because it feels way more nostalgic and is probably more of a home to the original avengers than the compound anyway.
> 
> If you liked it, you can (please) leave a comment or kudos


End file.
